Four Weeks…

Right now I have, sleeping on my chest, my baby.  He is so small.  He has very little hair that was silvery blond at birth but now seems to be darkening.  He makes faces, sometimes.  Various expressions of infant disgust; his Yertle the Turtle face; proto-smiles that I would like to believe are intended for me, but are more likely just tiny baby gas.

Four weeks ago, I met him for the first time.  I pushed him out into the world and he squawked briefly in dismay.  I had expected the screaming that you always see on those terrible baby shows, but no.  One brief yell and then he was put on my chest and we were both covered with a towel so I could keep him warm.  We then proceeded to check one another out.  It seemed the thing to do.  After all, he’d been physically closer to me than anyone ever had, but we’d never seen one another’s face.

I had always thought that I wouldn’t like having my brand-new, somewhat gory baby put on my bare skin.  I had always thought that I would hate that part.  I could never have imagined how wrong I was.  Staring at him, as he calmly stared back and sucked his fingers, was the most incredible fucking experience in my life.  I had him naturally, without pain-meds, and the post-birth high was sort of a cross between extacy and cocaine, but without the chemical aftertaste.  In that super-altered state, I stared at my kid and randomly, unexpectedly, became his mother.

I hated being pregnant.  There.  I said it.  I hated it.  In the beginning there was nausea and fatigue and while that was not particularly pleasant, it was manageable.  My changing shape didn’t thrill me, but it didn’t really bother me, either. Right about week 20, though, the real fun began.  Sucking black depression was mixed unappealingly with face-clawing anxiety.  From day to day, the only person I reliably wanted to be around was The Husband. I usually did not want to see my friends or my family; going to work some days was excruciating. Walking down the hall at the office would sometimes make me want to puke. The chemical cocktail  of pregnancy did not sit well with me.  Some people can’t do tequila, some avoid whiskey, apparently pregnancy brain makes me sick.  Who knew?

It did not help to have to decide whether or not to move to Texas.  My mother’s major surgery and her painful and slow recovery did not make my life any easier.  The final move and its attendant horrors–the air mattress, the drive down to Dallas, the final weeks on bed rest–did not improve my feelings.  Pregnancy, 1. Me, 0.

Because my experience of pregnancy was primarily one of being constantly horrified, I did not expect that I would be one of those mothers who bonded instantly with her baby.  I thought I would be one of those women who needed to get to know her baby and, eventually, would feel like his mother.

The instant I touched him, the second I heard his cry, I was hooked.  He was mine. Instantly. Inextricably. Had the midwife tried to take him from me and carry him across the room, I would have bitten her hand.

Four weeks ago, he was so tiny.  He had long, beautiful fingers with impossibly tiny fingernails. His feet were big on his tiny legs, but awfully wee as far as human appendages go. His ears were delicate little seashells.

When held against my chest, he pressed against me like a tree frog.  He still does, but I’m stunned by how much bigger he already is, and eventually he won’t be my little tree frog any more.  His face has filled out.  His thumb sort of looks like a toe. He definitely has two chins, although when I delivered him he had just one. He still squeaks like a toy when he has the hiccups, but it’s not quite chirpy sounding now.  He is beginning to cry tears.  Speaking of crying, tonight we had the first bath where he didn’t do any, but instead just looked around took it all in.

The Husband sings him silly, made-up songs. He gives the baby lessons on the history of popular music. Our baby has peed on his dad more than me, which I think is only fair given the whole birthing thing. Watching them together is so tender that it hurts my heart.  ”Oh,” I think, “now I get it.”

Oh.

Now? I get it.